Milton Quotes

Quotes tagged as "milton" (showing 1-18 of 18)
John Milton
“The mind is a universe and can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
John Milton

Helen Bevington
“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.”
Helen Bevington, When Found, Make a Verse of

John Berryman
“I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business: Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing.”
John Berryman

John Milton
“They changed their minds, Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell.”
John Milton

W.B. Yeats
“The portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors, and shut out all history and activity untouched with beauty and peace; and now when I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the rose in the hand of the Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and precise that it seemed more like a thought than a flower, or at the grey dawn and rapturous faces of my Francesca, I knew all a Christian's ecstasy without his slavery to rule and custom; when I pondered over the antique bronze gods and goddesses, which I had mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a pagan's delight in various beauty and without his terror at sleepless destiny and his labour with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to my bookshelf, where every book was bound in leather, stamped with intricate ornament, and of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare in the orange of the glory of the world, Dante in the dull red of his anger, Milton in the blue grey of his formal calm; and I could experience what I would of human passions without their bitterness and without satiety. I had gathered about me all gods because I believed in none, and experienced every pleasure because I gave myself to none, but held myself apart, individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished steel: I looked in the triumph of this imagination at the birds of Hera, glowing in the firelight as though they were wrought of jewels; and to my mind, for which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the doorkeepers of my world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent a beauty as their own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought in so many other moments, that it was possible to rob life of every bitterness except the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had followed this thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate sorrow.”
W.B. Yeats, Rosa Alchemica

John Milton
“Whose but his own? ingrate, he had of mee
All he could have; I made him just and right,
Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Such I created all th’ Ethereal Powers
And Spirits, both them who stood and them who fail’d;
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
Not free, what proof could they have giv’n sincere
Of true allegiance, constant Faith or Love,
Where only what they needs must do, appear’d,
Not what they would? what praise could they receive?
What pleasure I from such obedience paid,
When Will and Reason (Reason also is choice)
Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil’d,
Made passive both, had served necessity,
Not mee. They therefore as to right belong’d,
So were created, nor can justly accuse
Thir maker, or thir making, or thir Fate;
As if Predestination over-rul’d
Thir will, dispos’d by absolute Decree
Or high foreknowledge; they themselves decreed
Thir own revolt, not I; if I foreknew
Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault,
Which had no less prov’d certain unforeknown.
So without least impulse or shadow of Fate,
Or aught by me immutable foreseen,
They trespass, Authors to themselves in all
Both what they judge and what they choose; for so
I form’d them free, and free they must remain,
Till they enthrall themselves: I else must change
Thir nature, and revoke the high Decree
Unchangeable, Eternal, which ordain’d
Thir freedom: they themselves ordain’d thir fall.”
John Milton, The Complete Poems and Major Prose

Henry N. Beard
The Prologue to TERRITORY LOST

"Of cats' first disobedience, and the height
Of that forbidden tree whose doom'd ascent
Brought man into the world to help us down
And made us subject to his moods and whims,
For though we may have knock'd an apple loose
As we were carried safely to the ground,
We never said to eat th'accursed thing,
But yet with him were exiled from our place
With loss of hosts of sweet celestial mice
And toothsome baby birds of paradise,
And so were sent to stray across the earth
And suffer dogs, until some greater Cat
Restore us, and regain the blissful yard,
Sing, heavenly Mews, that on the ancient banks
Of Egypt's sacred river didst inspire
That pharaoh who first taught the sons of men
To worship members of our feline breed:
Instruct me in th'unfolding of my tale;
Make fast my grasp upon my theme's dark threads
That undistracted save by naps and snacks
I may o'ercome our native reticence
And justify the ways of cats to men.”
Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

William Blake
“The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.”
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

“...[T]he three greatest works are those of Homer, Dante and Shakespeare.

These are closely followed by the works of Virgil and Milton.”
Joseph Devlin, How to Speak and Write Correctly

John Milton
“Father, I do acknowledge and confess
That I this honor, I this pomp have brought
To Dagon, and advanc’d his praises high
among the Heathen round; to God have brought
Dishonor, obloquy, and op’d the mouths
Of Idolists, and Atheists
[…]The anguish of my Soul, that suffers not
Mine eye to harbor sleep, or thoughts to rest.
This only hope relieves me, that the strife
With mee hath end.”
John Milton, The Complete Poems and Major Prose

Bruce Crown
“What kind of dark, twisted mind preys on young women? I think it was Poe that said the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical thing in the universe, and if that was true… I was John Milton.”
Bruce Crown, Forlorn Passions

Louise Penny
“I saw a lot of men die there. Most men. Do you know what killed them?”…”Despair,” said Finney. “They believed themselves to be prisoners. I lived with those men, ate the same maggot-infested food, slept in the same beds, did the same back-breaking work. But they died and I lived. Do you know why?” “You were free.” “I was free. Milton was right…the mind is its own place. I was never a prisoner. Not then, not now.”
Louise Penny, A Rule Against Murder

John Milton
“So spake the enemy of mankind, enclosed
In serpent, inmate bad! and toward Eve
Addressed his way: not with indented wave,
Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear,
Circular base of rising folds, that towered
Fold above fold, a surging maze! his head
Crested aloft, and carbuncle his eyes;
With burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
Amidst his circling spires, that on the grass
Floated redundant: pleasing was his shape
And lovely; never since of serpent-kind
Lovelier…”
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Elizabeth Gaskell
“It is always the savage lads, with their love of excitement, who head the riot - reckless to what bloodshed it may lead.”
Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South

John Milton
“Dark vaild Cotytto, t’ whom the secret flame
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
That ne’re art call’d, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the ayr”
John Milton, Milton's Comus

Hilaire Belloc
“All that can best be expressed in words should be expressed in verse, but verse is a slow thing to create; nay, it is not really created: it is a secretion of the mind, it is a pearl that gathers round some irritant and slowly expresses the very essence of beauty and of desire that has lain long, potential and unexpressed, in the mind of the man who secretes it. God knows that this Unknown Country has been hit off in verse a hundred times...

Milton does it so well in the Fourth Book of Paradise Lost that I defy any man of a sane understanding to read the whole of that book before going to bed and not to wake up next morning as though he had been on a journey.”
Hilaire Belloc, On Anything

Beppe Fenoglio
“Era successo proprio all’altezza dell’ultimo ciliegio. Lei aveva attraversato il vialetto ed era entrata nel prato oltre i ciliegi. Si era sdraiata, sebbene vestisse di bianco e l’erba non fosse più tiepida. Si era raccolta nelle mani a conca la nuca e le trecce e fissava il sole. Ma come lui accennò ad entrare nel prato gridò di no. «Resta dove sei. Appoggiati al tronco del ciliegio. Così». Poi, guardando il sole, disse: «Sei brutto». Milton assentì con gli occhi e lei riprese: «Hai occhi stupendi, la bocca bella, una bellissima mano, ma complessivamente sei brutto». Girò impercettibilmente la testa verso lui e disse: «Ma non sei poi così brutto. Come fanno a dire che sei brutto?”
Beppe Fenoglio, Una questione privata

Beppe Fenoglio
“Scattò tutta la testa verso di lui e disse: «Come comincerai la tua prossima lettera? Fulvia dannazione?» Lui aveva scosso la testa, frusciando i capelli contro la corteccia del ciliegio.
Fulvia si affannò. «Vuoi dire che non ci sarà una prossima lettera?» «Semplicemente che non la comincerò Fulvia dannazione. Non temere, per le lettere. Mi rendo conto. Non possiamo più farne ameno. Io di scrivertele e tu di riceverle».”
Beppe Fenoglio, Una questione privata